


Void

by Electricviolinist



Series: Void [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:27:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Electricviolinist/pseuds/Electricviolinist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a void, fit only to be used. Or so he thinks.<br/>Note the warnings. Theo is evil.<br/>Hopeful ending. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Void

Stiles moaned.

“Hush,” Theo hissed into his ear.

Stiles bit his lip. He knew it wasn’t his place to be enjoying this or hating this. This was Theo’s time. Stiles was the void, broken by his past, and Theo was taking his reward for fixing him.

Because Theo was the only one who could want him.

The table started to dig into his hips. His fingers found the edges that he could grip as he let Theo do as he pleased.

Theo grasped his hair, tugging his head back. Stiles thought that Theo enjoyed the gasps he made. He certainly enjoys the bruising Stiles hips always seem to have these days. Stiles had realised that was probably the only unique quality he had for Theo. If he bruised Malia or Liam, they’d just heal. Stiles would display the marks for days.

Or weeks or months.

Theo used his grip on Stiles’ hair to push his head into the table as he sped up. Stiles didn’t react. He always worked hard at not reacting, when Theo’s ministrations felt right and when they felt wrong. When they felt right they felt so right. Like when Derek would push Stiles against a wall and Stiles would give him a snarky reply. The edge that felt like power and energy that he could call Derek on his shit even though Derek could squash him.

Theo could squash him too. Theo might yet. But he wanted him. He wanted Stiles. Stiles the killer, Stiles the void. Stiles the empty and broken and wrong, but Theo wanted him. And Stiles didn’t even care what for.

Malia had said she wanted him. But Malia wanted Theo too. And Stiles found he didn’t mind. He didn’t deserve Malia. Theo didn’t either, but Malia didn’t seem to mind.

Theo came. He came with his fingers tight in Stiles hair, his hips pushing Stiles into the hard edge of the table. His hand tightened on Stiles’ wrist, hard enough to grind bones. Stiles could thank him for the pain, the temporary release from the rest of his misery.

When he was in enough pain, he wasn’t hating himself. Allison, Aiden, Donovan. Scott.

Theo let go of his hair and used him to lean on to stand up straight. Then he stroked Stiles’ hip. The bruises stung. His arse stung. His scalp stung. He appreciated it. If he was hurting, maybe he was paying.

Theo didn't say anything. He probably didn't need to. Stiles could hear him getting dressed and ready to leave. Stiles couldn't quite move yet. It was probably weakness that he took longer to recover than Theo, but he was beyond caring now. He was the weak one. He was the empty one. The powerless one. He was good for Theo to abuse, and Theo thought he was vicious inside, that when Theo called on him, he would be a tool of destruction and chaos.

Stiles didn’t know what he would do when that day came.

When Theo was dressed, he turned to look at Stiles. Stiles was yet to even cover himself. He’d expected Theo to just leave. It was what he should do. He never did.

“Malia’s made me a picnic.”

Words that made no sense to Stiles. They were random. Unexpected but expected all at once. He didn’t think he was expected to reply.

He took a moment to even realise they’d been spoken.

“Yeah,” sighed Theo, “She thinks we’ve been a bit distant these last couple of days.” Theo sighed happily, “Wants to make it up to me. She’s worried I think it was her fault. Wants to show me that she really cares for me.”

Stiles nodded. The words were probably designed to wound him, but it was better that Malia was moving on.

“She’s made food,” Theo added, “Some of it suitable for humans. Effort. I think she’s trying to be feminine.”

“Don’t,” Stiles whispered.

He caught Theo’s triumphant expression. “I knew you were in there somewhere. You’re not a doormat Stiles. Wake up and say something.”

Stiles shivered. Theo wanted his spark of anger. Stiles didn’t really have one. It wasn’t anger. “Don’t hurt her,” he said, “She seems strong, but… but she’s still learning how people work.”

Theo huffed a laugh. He shook his head and strolled closer to Stiles once more. He stroked a lazy hand down Stiles’ back. “I’m not going to hurt her,” he whispered, “I’m giving you all what you want. Liam wants to be trusted, Lydia wants to be clever, Malia wants to be loved, and you want to be hurt.”

Stiles couldn’t argue with it. Except, “And Scott?”

Theo shrugged, “Scott wanted to die for a cause.”

Stiles bit his lip. But he didn’t reply.

Theo moved around him again to check his own reflection in a nearby mirror.

“Shall I tie you up again?” he asked, “Would that help you feel better?”

Stiles could go out of his head while he was tied up. It took choices away from him. He craved that. But he didn’t want that choice at all, so he didn’t reply.

“I think I should,” said Theo, “I think you need it.”

Stiles didn’t reply, but didn’t resist when he felt Theo wrap something around his wrist. 

Theo pulled both of Stiles wrists together over his head, and wrapped them individually in the soft rope. Then he attached the rope around them both, knotting them tightly, before using the end to pull Stiles up.

“Do you need the bathroom?” Theo asked.

Stiles shrugged.

“Stiles,” said Theo, a finger curling into Stiles’ hair.

“No,” said Stiles.

“OK,” Theo replied with a small smile, and pulled Stiles to the ground.  He pushed Stiles onto his arse, then bound his hands to the table leg. “Feet,” he said, simply.

Stiles twisted around and gave Theo his feet. Theo tied them together with another piece of rope, then tied the end of the rope to the opposite table leg. Leaving Stiles lying on the floor attached to two legs of the table. It wasn’t conformable on the floor, and Stiles could only just rest his head on his arm, but it there was something to be said for it. He had an excuse not to fight.  He was bound and subjugated.  It was OK for him to lie still, to wriggle and writhe and burn his wrists on the rope, but not get anywhere.

Theo only watched him, steadily.  “I’ll be a few hours,” he said, “Then I might let you sleep on a bed.”

Stiles didn’t reply. Theo’s eyes flashed at the slight, and his hand shot out, and his fingers dug into Stiles’ mouth. “Wake up!” he snapped, “You’re supposed to be pack! Stop behaving like a slave!”

Stiles didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The fingers in his mouth, which he didn’t even think about biting, showed him exactly what he was. Theo could make Stiles do what he wanted, but he couldn’t have Stiles. Stiles had gone when Scott had.

Theo lost his patience. He stormed from the room, leaving Stiles where he was, on the floor. Stiles watched him go.

He lay still for some time. He’d long discovered that once he was bound, moving around a lot did very little to ease his discomfort. He’d try to turn in maybe half an hour, or maybe longer.  Last as long as he could in one position, then move to any other he can get to.

But he didn’t want to think. He couldn’t bear to think. Thinking was bad. So he lay still and filled his brain with Scott’s face.

He didn’t know how long he lay there before he heard the noises.

The first few were bangs, clatters. The sound of heavy things falling against each other. Stiles stilled completely, eyes open, and barely breathing. The dread doctors had no reason to approach him, but… there were plenty of creatures out there. He’d been discovering them since he was fifteen.

Then there were footsteps. Getting closer.  Closer and closer and making Stiles’ heart pound.

“Shh!”

A hiss, not far enough away.

“Yes, someone’s obviously in there,” said Peter Hale.

“Shh!” hissed the first voice again.

“Really?” replied the voice of Peter Hale, with characteristic scorn, “If it was someone we should be scared of, they would have heard us break the door down!”

“Will you shut up?” snapped the unmistakable voice of Derek Hale, giving Stiles a start. His breath sucked in, more life than he’d shown in weeks.

The voices dwindled. Maybe they’d heard him? Stiles held his breath.

“Was that…?” Derek whispered.

The voices both held still for a moment. Then two pairs of feet pounded the corridor and Stiles heard the door to his side be thrown open. It crashed off the wall, rattled and reverberated. Stiles jumped too, rattled himself with shakes of directionless adrenaline.

The feet poured into the room and froze. Stiles froze too. For long moments there was just stillness.

“Stiles!”

A breathy voice to his side. Stiles refused to turn. He couldn’t. He didn’t want them to be here. He didn’t want anyone else to die because he couldn’t … couldn’t stop it.

Hands were on his bonds before he could argue.

“No!” he gasped.

But Derek was untying him.

“No, no, no, no!” he repeated.

“Stiles,” Derek breathed, “Where is he?”

Stiles shook his head.

“Stiles!” Derek snapped, “Stiles! What’s he done to him?”

Peter Hale appeared in Stiles’ view. Stiles tried to turn, but Peter grabbed his chin. “Look at me,” Peter ordered. Stiles wanted to disobey. He didn’t.

“Run away,” Stiles whispered. “Now!”

Peter kept his grip on Stiles’ chin, as Derek continued to untie him.

“Why?” asked Peter, calmly.

“They’ll come for you,” Stiles hissed urgently. “You won’t survive!”

Peter put his head to the side, “Won’t survive what?”

Stiles glared, “You know!”

Peter turned from him, and, with a sad sigh, announced, “He’s quit.”

Derek growled.

“I know,” said Peter, “So, we’re kidnapping you, Stiles.”

“No!” Stiles cried, “I’ve got to be here!”

Derek scooped Stiles up into his arms.

“You’re suffering from guilt fed by an overinflated opinion of your own self-importance,” said Peter, “and maybe some Stockholm syndrome. Nothing I can cure you of in the next three minutes. So we’re taking you away.”

“Stop!” Stiles cried, “You can’t! Derek, run away!”

“Where do we take him?” Derek asked Peter.

“Interesting,” said Peter, “No question about the original plan. You find Stiles tied up and you have no other goal but to get him out.”

“Shut up,” Derek growled.

Stiles hit him round the head.

“Run away!” he cried. “You’ve got to run! I can’t let you get hurt!”

“No,” said Derek, simply. “Where do we take him?”

“Away. Out of Beacon Hills,” said Peter, “We can’t save him and kill the chimera. At least, not today.”

Derek, who was now holding Stiles bridal style (which should have been the most humiliating thing ever, and Stiles wondered why he was thinking about potential humiliation when he’d killed a man and deserved far worse,) merely turned to leave.

“I’ll remember that,” Stiles heard Peter say from behind them, “Stiles is more important than the world. Gotcha.”

“He’s pack,” Derek grumbled, even as he pulled Stiles tighter into his chest.

“So is the little, angry one, apparently” said Peter, “I don’t see you doing this for him. Speaking of pack, Stiles, have you seen my daughter recently?”

Stiles didn’t reply.

“We’ll come back for her,” said Peter with a sigh.

Derek once again tightened his grip on Stiles.

“I see you’re not dating my daughter anymore,” Peter said conversationally.

Stiles shook his head. “I don’t deserve her,” he said.

“Well, we won’t debate that now,” said Peter, “In case Derek has an aneurism.”

“Shut up,” growled Derek.

“Yeah shut up!” Stiles agreed, “Aren’t you supposed to be locked up or something? And why are you following this creep around?”

Peter laughed. Derek grumbled something unintelligible.

“I think the rudeness is a sign he’s feeling better already,” said Peter, cheerfully.

Derek turned on him. “It’s not a game!” he snapped angrily, as Stiles gripped at Derek’s chest in case he was dropped.

Peter merely lifted an eyebrow. “Do you think you’re the only one who cares about him?”

Derek did not seem comforted by the words. He turned from Peter once more, and made his hurried way out onto the street, away from the mess of Stiles’ temporary home. This was the point of no return. Stiles had to escape, get back under that table and hope Theo didn’t notice there were any Hales to worry about.

Somehow, he didn’t have the energy.

When Derek put him gently on the back seat of the Camero, which Peter had graciously opened, Stiles didn’t even protest.

He couldn’t hope. That wasn’t allowed. But maybe, he didn’t need to dread either.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This work is a massive great heap of darkness, but it wanted to be written.  
> Please let me know what you feel about it. Even if it's too dark.


End file.
